


Dressing Down

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: F/M, Gen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-02-16
Updated: 2000-02-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser, Thatcher and a keyhole.





	Dressing Down

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Dressing Down

## Dressing Down

by Voyagerbabe

Author's disclaimer: Don't own 'em, never will. More's the pity

Author's notes: Naughty words. Naughtier thoughts. Voyeurism. Female masturbation.   
If this bothers you, walk on.

* * *

"Dressing Down"  
Voyagerbabe  
**PWP**  
1/1  
02/02/00  
Fraser/Thatcher  
NC-17  
Thatcher watches Fraser undress.  
Author's notes: I had a hell of a dream last night. Thought I should share. Feel free to play Meg as I did...there's a reason I didn't mention her name.  
WARNINGS: Naughty words. Naughtier thoughts. Voyeurism. Female masturbation. If that bothers you, there's a delete key. If that arouses you, make sure your keyholes are covered. 

NOTE TO LIST: If Str posts this directly, shoot her please. I have given her explicit instructions and threats of dire bodily harm that this shall go directly from my disk to an email *attachment* without passing go or being read by underage eyes. Also, feel free to archive this anywhere. Hexwood (please), RSY (please), DSC (please), the Fraser/Thatcher 

archive...anything. 

*** 

She shouldn't have. 

Goddamn it, but it was unprofessional and inexcusable and voyeuristic and dishonest and inappropriate and invasive and dehumanizing and any other very bad thing she could think of. To put it into a single word, it was rude. No. Perhaps a better, more truthful word would be that it was wrong. It was flat out wrong, and there was no getting around that. 

Her mind knew that. Her body, particularly some of the lower regions, had a completely different philosophy. There was no getting around that, either, and that was simply the fact that what she was seeing was hands down the most erotic vision in her entire life. 

Oddly, she wasn't watching anything particularly exotic. She was simply on her knees in the Consulate hall, one eye pressed firmly against the keyhole of Constable Fraser's bedroom/office. Through that tiny space, she could see almost all of the small room, dimly illuminated by a single light on Fraser's desk. In that light, that glowing, shadowy yellow light, Fraser was getting undressed for the night. 

That was all. He was getting undressed. He wasn't having wild sex with the entire female population of Chicago, or for that matter, the male population. He wasn't even jerking off. In fact, he wasn't doing anything that most people would have considered sexual. 

It was the fact that the sight was so forbidden that made it so incredibly arousing. 

She really hadn't intended to spy on him. They had merely been working late together on the Consular taxes, trying to determine what on God's green earth column 34-A had to do with the sum total of lines 44-C and 12974-J. She had sent Turnbull at five o'clock, aware of his uselessness with such matters, but she and Fraser had remained. By the time the forms had been properly completed, the Constable had been suppressing yawns every thirty seconds, and she had offered to let him turn in immediately while she locked things up. 

It had been an offer made in all innocence. She had intended it as a gesture of gratitude, and any ulterior motive had been the farthest thing from her mind as he had gone to his room and she had begun checking doors and windows. 

He probably thought she was long gone. All the lights were out except for his, and he would have heard her walking through the halls to lock the doors. He had no clue that the sound of a heavy something hitting the floor had caught her attention, or that she had stopped, curious as to what precisely had been the source of that sound. 

When she had realized that it was Fraser's boot in Fraser's room, she should have turned away. She knew that. Yet some impulse had pulled her down to her knees, had drawn her eye to his keyhole. Once that had been done, there was no pulling back. No force of heaven or hell could pry her away from that forbidden vantage. 

He was sitting on his cot, the thin canvas bowed slightly beneath his weight as he reached down. His fingers sped over the laces of his left boot, slipping laces through holes and untying knots so quickly and nimbly as to be almost a blur. The fingers themselves were blunt and thick, weathered with the remains of calluses and the blocky joints of a working man. They were not privileged hands, they were not sheltered hands, but they were strong hands, capable of lifting and pulling and twisting with immense power. It seemed almost out of place that such laborer's hands could at the same time be so graceful, so agile and deft. 

Watching them barely skim the surface of the leather as they whisked the laces out, then tug apart the sides of the boot to pull his leg free, she saw the eye-blink shift from delicacy to brute force. Without being bid, her mind began to run free. A harsh pull at a blouse, sending buttons scattering to the winds. Delicate play of those slightly coarse fingertips across the sensitive skin of newly revealed breasts. 

Her hand slipped up, twisted a button. Twisted another. The front of her suit jacket fell open.  
With both boots off, he closed his eyes, leaning back on the cot as he stretched his legs in front of him. Still encased in white cotton socks, he wiggled his toes and swiveled his ankles, free at last from the tightly held confines of the leather. The socks went quickly, toed off without even the need to bend down. His feet weren't as large as she had thought from looking at his boots, the heel and ball callused and the toes blunt from thousands of kilometers of walking. 

He preferred to walk, that she knew. Before coming to live in the Consulate, he had walked in to work almost every morning, and every day he would still go for a walk in the park. It didn't matter how horrible the weather. She had seen him walk in sleet, snow, freezing rain, scorching heat, fog, smog, and gusting wind. Each time, he returned looking as though he had been refreshed from his soul out. His eyes glowed, his step was strong, his lips seemed to play more frequently with the thought of a smile. 

It brought him to life. 

Fraser was wild, a creature of the outdoors to the very core of his soul. She wondered how that would translate sexually. Would he be untamable, intense, a lone wolf who prowled and claimed his mate? Somehow, she didn't think so. Living so dangerously must translate into an amazing awareness of self. He knew his body with a sureness and self-trust that no city man ever had to develop. 

A warmth was rising, spreading from her chest and cutting off her breaths to short pants. Like the slow oozing of melting chocolate across hot flesh, it dripped down through her body, collecting and centering between her legs. Another button twisted, then a second and third. 

Her blouse lay open. 

The Sam Browne belt was being discarded now, unfastened from around the waist of the tunic, the cross-strap unbuckled and slipped back out through the epaulets. The lanyard was next, it's slip knot opening like the snare of a trap that had been attempting to hold something too free for pitiful ropes or knots. Epaulets were unbuttoned, and the white noose fell silently to the floor. Then the buttons, brass twinkling and flashing as his fingers almost skimmed down, leaving the lips of the serge open in their wake. Velcro, a sound like the tearing of cloth as the high black collar was opened, exposing the smooth, creamy skin of his throat. 

She had seen this procedure before. Locked in an incubator, she had ordered him to remove his tunic. He had stared at her, wide, innocent eyes unsure of her intentions, fingers moving so swiftly to comply, even before he knew why. Then, she had needed the heavy tunic, needed a wire collar stay to make good their escape. Now he was taking it off without orders, doing it for her pleasure alone. 

The heat was rising, rising to match the incubator where first she had seen the breathtaking speed with which he could accomplish the complicated procedure. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't. Thus far the only bare flesh she had seen newly exposed had been his feet, but this gradual stripping away of layers was almost as intense as complete nudity. 

Her palm cupped her breast through the thin lace of her bra, her thumb and forefinger teasing at the nipple. The Consulate was warm, but her body responded quickly, tightening to a hard peak that brushed the lace with a tickle that was almost unbearable. Her fingers worked slow circles, teasing around the outer edge of her breast, only occasionally darting near the straining nipple. 

He would be like this. Gentle, slow, controlled. Waiting and waiting until she was screaming, begging him to just take her, just fuck her for God's sake, get the waiting over with! Get the waiting over with. The long days of almost-glances, of eyes meeting across rooms and then darting apart before too much was seen. Freudian conversations and half-intended double entendre. It would be so much easier if they could resolve it so simply. Fuck their brains out and get it over with, release this ballooning sexual tension that threatened to blow the Consulate apart. 

The suspenders now, tossed from one shoulder, then the other with unexpected flair. For Christ's sake, she would have half thought the man knew he was performing for someone! But no, that shrug of the broad shoulders with the fall of each strap, the flexing of the back, it was just the release of yet another constraint. 

Another of her constraints fell away at the same moment. The clasp of her bra gave way beneath her insistent fingers, removing that last barrier between flesh and fingertips. She pinched her nipple almost too hard, drawing a gasp from her lips that she had to bite back before she alerted him. She couldn't alert him now. They were just getting to the good part. 

The good part began in earnest as he unbuttoned the collar of his Henley, then grasped the hem and pulled the long-sleeved white shirt up over his head. The undershirt beneath clung to the planes of his body, the thin white cotton still teasingly refusing her a glimpse at the skin of his torso. Still, the lines were perfectly visible, flat stomach, narrow waist, broad chest tapering down. 

In the scooped neckline of the undershirt, she could see the upper definition of his pectoral muscles, the lines of his collarbones, the little sensitive hollows above. His neck rose like a Grecian column, smooth and graceful. It was almost a woman's neck, without a pronounced Adam's apple, skinny cording of sinews, or the overblown musculature that made some men seem to have no neck at all. At the same time, it was unmistakably masculine, strong and straight. Pale and vulnerable, it stretched up and back as he pulled the Henley off his head and tossed it away to the cot. 

Shoulders and arms lay bare in the golden lamplight. They were smooth as a molten sigh, and beneath the pale skin, the gentle curves of the muscles were clear. His shoulders were broad, the line well over a third again as wide as his waist. She knew the strength in those shoulders, those arms. They were arms that could literally sweep her off her feet, carry her up the stairs to the Queen's bedroom without the slightest strain. 

He smoothed one hand over his hair, but it was a redundant action. The collar of the shirt had left the neat style he wore during the day hopelessly tousled. With the firm restraint of whatever hair gel he used now broken, his hair had exploded in a gleeful mass of little-boy curls. The dark ringlets seemed to have no particular direction, some sticking almost straight out while others simply curved with subtle grace. The touch of disarray on the usually perfectly tidy Constable was endearing and alluring all at the same time, a hint that he didn't always have everything under his exact control. 

Her fingers moved rapidly now, touching and caressing. She brought her left hand up for a moment, licking her fingers. With the now moistened fingertips, she returned her hand beneath her blouse, trailing the cool wetness of her saliva over her nipples. No longer were they her hands stimulating her. It was his mouth, that sweet mouth that she watched there through the keyhole. The pads of her fingers...no, his lips, his lips pulling and suckling like a babe. Her fingernails...no, his teeth, nipping ever so lightly, that one slightly crooked eye tooth offering a vague deviation from the others. 

Breath was coming in gasps now, waiting impatiently for the few remaining garments to vanish. She nearly screamed in frustration as he stopped, turning to pick up the clothing he had already discarded. What time was this for neatness? Didn't he realize that there was a woman dying outside his door?! 

One hand disengaged itself from her breasts, soothing her disappointment by attacking the button of her slacks. She bit her lip. Why had she worn slacks today? Of all the days to not be wearing a simple, easy-access skirt! 

Part of her was surprised that he couldn't hear it. How could he not hear her ragged breaths, her pounding heart, the tiny, almost imperceptible moans that escaped despite her best efforts? Perhaps it was because he wasn't expecting to listen for his superior officer pleasuring herself outside his bedroom door. Perhaps he was too tired. Whatever it was, she thanked whatever supreme being needed to be thanked that he didn't hear her. 

The zipper of her slacks was down now, her hand inside the waistband, rubbing back and forth rapidly over the fabric of her panties. The silk was already moist with her arousal, but she forced herself to show some slight restraint, refusing to allow her fingers to dip beneath the silken barrier until he had gotten back to business. 

There! Finally! The goddamned tunic was on the hanger, all the belts and ropes and socks and boots where he wanted them. He paused to check something on his desk calendar, and she nearly screamed again. Why the fuck couldn't he just get on with the simple business of getting completely, gloriously naked! 

What seemed like an eternity later, he seemed to remember that he was supposed to be taking his clothes off. She sighed in relief as he took the hem of his undershirt, pulling it away and dropping it onto the cot where the Henley had landed before. As the pristine white flesh of his torso came into view, she rewarded herself accordingly, her fingers pulling aside the cloth barrier of her panties and dipping energetically into her sex. 

She had seen more developed male torsos before. She had seen men who had sculpted every fiber and muscle to the utmost definition, and she had seen men who had relentlessly toned away every molecule of fat that had ever considered residing on their bodies. What she saw before her now was neither of those, but it was without a doubt the most beautiful body she 0had ever been blessed to see. It was...natural. The kind of body nature intended rather than the kind fashion sculpted. 

Fraser did not belong to any exclusive gym, did not have a personal trainer, did not spend hours lifting weights and calculating reps. Oh, she knew that he exercised. She had heard him counting off sit-ups and push-ups when she had come by the Consulate particularly early one morning, and he hadn't sounded out of breath despite the numbers climbing to one hundred of each. He did those, and he walked, and he worked off every pizza he had ever eaten with Vecchio in ensuing foot chases and rooftop contortionism. 

The result was a body that was perfectly fit, but not as grotesquely defined as some dedicated health fanatics. The lines were smooth, the muscles simply, lightly suggested against the flesh. It was almost teasing. She could see his pecs and biceps and triceps and deltoids when he stood still, but when he moved, his abs and several other smaller muscles would shadow into view, reminding her that while not a fanatic's body, it was still a body in the peak of health. 

She imagined that beautiful form pressed against hers, his bare skin against her own. Those strong arms would wrap around her slender body, and she would trail kisses and nips down his chest. Each flat male nipple would be taken into her mouth in turn, her lips and tongue pulling them to hardness as she slowly worked her way down his body, down, down....down... 

One hand still alternated between her breasts, lightly stimulating her nipples and aureole as the other wound its way lower. Two fingers parted her labia as her forefinger explored the area revealed there, gently rubbing and spreading the hot, slick fluid she found. She growled low in her throat as her questing fingers sought her clit, wondering why God had played such a cruel trick as to make the source of a woman's pleasure something so fucking hard to get to. But now, now she was almost, almost...THERE! 

Her vision blurred a moment as she found the spot, but she forced herself to keep her eyes open. The really interesting part of the show was just getting started. Licking her lips, she slowed her hands, her fingers only tracing slow, lazy circles around her clit and nipples as she watched hungrily. 

Fraser was down to the jodhpurs now. He made short work of the button and zipper, then pushed the trousers off his hips to fall down around his ankles and be kicked away. 

She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. 

The torso had been naturally beautiful, but the legs....the legs were goddamned amazing. She knew that Fraser rode, and that even since coming to Chicago, he would often go out to local stables on weekends and offer to exercise the horses free of charge. There was no swifter route to knockout legs than horseback riding. 

Any woman would have envied the sleek, slender lines, but they were lines of pure muscle. As he walked to retrieve his jodhpurs and undershirt, she was stunned to see that nothing moved. There wasn't even the slightest jiggle anywhere, just the fluid undulations of thigh and calf muscles bunching and releasing. *Holy shit, he could crack walnuts between those thighs!* 

She felt the heat began to grow down her own thighs. With such lower body strength, he would be nothing short of a phenomenal fuck. And stamina...she knew he had stamina. She had heard enough of both Vecchio's whining about endless pursuits to know he had more than enough stamina to fulfill her wildest dreams. 

Those dreams were getting wilder by the moment. Her hand had picked up speed considerably, and it was pinching and rubbing and circling her clit until her vision went fuzzy around the edges. She was beginning to have serious doubts as to whether she could last through the full Monty. Taking a deep, ragged breath, she slid her hand up and away, trailing it over her stomach in gentle caresses and deep massage. That was better. Couldn't leave before the end of the show. 

He dropped the boxers. 

Her entire body froze. "Jesus Fucking Christ!" She wasn't sure if the shocked whisper had actually been spoken aloud, but Fraser didn't seem to have heard her. 

In the middle of the gleamingly pale surface of his back, a huge, ugly dark scar gnarled the skin. Her eyes widened as she realized that it must have been the remains of the bullet wound that had him hospitalized when she had first arrived in Chicago. It was grotesque and twisted, looking like an island of pain in the middle of such smooth simplicity. Her lips ached to kiss it, to touch it, to gently worship away the long-ago hurt. She could make him forget. She could make him forget wounds and scars and orders not to resume 'contact' and everything except for man and woman and carnal desires too intense to be ignored. 

Then her eyes wandered downward from the violation of the scar, and her pulse raced quicker still. She realized now that she had only been getting appetizers at work, and only a decent entree for most of the night. This...THIS was dessert. 

He was facing away from her, bending and gathering up boxers and jodhpurs to be neatly dealt with. She was thus treated to a full, unimpeded view of his ass. What an ass it was. It was very apparent that thighs were not the only part of the anatomy that were excessively benefited by mounted activity. She had a sudden thought flash through her mind, comparing his ass to a particularly sweet, luscious cantaloupe melon. A perfect pair in fact, rock hard yet undoubtedly yielding to the right sort of pressure, rounded globes of smooth flesh and sinful incomparability. 

When he moved, she could see glimpses in the shadowed lamp light of the package between his legs, and she pressed even harder against the keyhole, straining to see. 

Fraser bent again, retrieving something out of the trunk that rested at the foot of his cot. As he stood and turned, he let the item fall loose. Red woolen long johns unfurled, falling to hang in front of him before she had a chance to get a look at anything. She moaned, closing her eyes in a split second's frustration as her fingers resumed their ministrations at double-time. 

Apparently satisfied that the long johns were indeed his, he set them on the desk, then turned back and selected a pair of starched, crisply ironed white boxer shorts, identical to the pair he had recently divested himself of. The shorts were not nearly as long as the previous garment, and as he went to sit on the cot and put them on, she was gifted a complete view of the Fraser family jewels. 

He didn't possess a porn star's penis, but neither was it of any unfortunate dimensions. It lay calmly unaroused over the heavy, soft sac of his balls, emerging as pale and perfect as the rest of him from the small nest of wiry dark curls at his groin. Neither overly wide and long nor disappointingly short and narrow, his penis was simply average in terms of size and shape. The secret, of course, was that there was a point at which average became exceptional. If a face was exactly what the books considered to be 'normal' proportions, the result was classical beauty. If a penis was exactly what it was supposed to be, it was considered a great find. 

She imagined what it would look like hard and hot, straining with lust for her, his blue eyes shining with want and dark with animal passion as he gripped her in his arms, his stare alone begging permission to take her. Take her take her take her and make her forget that she was an Inspector, that she was a member of the RCMP, that she was anything at all except for pure woman. His eyes would beg, and she would say yes. 

Then he would lean low, white teeth nipping at the flesh of her neck as they worked down to her breasts. He would allow himself to worship there a few wonderful moments, then he would pull back. Those strong thighs would straddle her, and he would brace his hands and arms on the bed so as not to hurt her. Slowly, almost too slowly, he would lower himself into her, and she would feel herself stretch and open to accommodate his penis. Once they were joined, he would let his body melt down onto hers, and they would wrap into a feverish embrace of mouths and hands and hips that rocked back and forth, in and out in a primal heartbeat until...until... 

The contractions that had been shuddering through her body reached a crescendo, and she almost cried out, biting her lip harder to draw a thicker trickle of blood, feeling her body transform into burning liquid. The orgasm washed over her in a burst of intense pleasure, leaving her boneless against the door, gasping for air. A heady, floating feeling was left in its place, a sense of suspended time and sensation. Her groin tingled happily, and she didn't realize that her hand was still in that general vicinity, rubbing slowly, lazily, almost unknowingly. Her heart was thundering in her ears, but she could hear movement approaching from within the room, and she knew she had to get the hell out of there. 

Still feeling as though her head were floating a meter or so above the rest of her body, she managed to stagger to her feet, pulling herself to the next door in the hallway. Her hands fumbled with the knob for a moment, but she somehow opened it, dropping inside the broom closet and pulling the door shut behind her just as another door opened. 

She held her breath as she heard bare footsteps emerge from Fraser's room. He stepped out into the hall, then seemed to turn around a few times, no doubt curious as to what had thudded against his door. "Hello?" He called curiously. 

She said nothing. She was terrified that he would find her like this \- blouse and bra and fly dangling open, face sweaty, hair tousled, distinct wet spot on the crotch of her slacks - and know exactly what she had been up to. For once, she hated Fraser for having the ears of a bat, as it meant that she couldn't chance trying to straighten herself up. Indeed, she tried to hold her breath to avoid even that small sound, but oxygen was a distinct necessity. Finally, she was forced to breathe, but it was an action that she immediately regretted. Being in the broom closet, she was surrounded by mops and brooms. Dusty, dirty mops and brooms. 

She sneezed. 

Loudly. 

He heard her. 

**THE END**

I still like feedback, y'know.... 

Gone but hopefully not forgotten:  
VB 

Note: Voyagerbabe has lost her internet access for an indefinate period. Feedback can be relayed through VB sends her thanks. 


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